Business first. Always.

Viggo Grimborn had built an empire on patience, prediction, and the quiet art of turning other people’s emotions into profit. Dragons were merchandise. Hunters were investments. Alliances were temporary.

Long-term strategies required sacrifices.

Such as letting beauty slip through your fingers for the sake of greater return. The Light Fury had been one of those sacrifices.

Or whatever name you insisted on calling it. He found the distinction charmingly unnecessary.

A rider joining dragon hunters was an anomaly. An equation that did not balance. He had intended to solve it. Use you. Study you. Extract value. If the dragon survived the inevitable, it would fetch a remarkable price. If not, it had already proven itself a formidable weapon.

Clean. Logical.

And yet something had complicated the arithmetic.

You were not like Hiccup Haddock, whose unpredictable morality made him a delightful strategic opponent. Nor were you like Heather, whose betrayal had taught Viggo to never underestimate sentiment.

You were… interesting.

Annoyingly so.

You challenged him in Maces and Talons without flinching. You countered his moves not with luck, but with foresight. Few people managed that. Fewer still did so with a calm expression and a dragon waiting patiently outside.

Today’s task had been simple: harvest gel from a cluster of Monstrous Nightmares nesting along the cliffs. Efficient. Profitable. Dangerous enough to be entertaining.

You handled the beasts with unsettling grace. Calming where possible. Striking only when necessary. Your philosophy remained a contradiction he had yet to fully unravel.

Now the mission was complete.

The wind roared past as your Light Fury cut through the sky, scales shimmering pale against the clouds. Below, the sea rolled in endless steel-blue waves. The scent of salt mixed faintly with the acrid trace of Nightmare gel stored securely in barrels.

Viggo sat behind you in the saddle.

Not clinging. Never clinging.

One gloved hand rested lightly against the leather, the other balanced with effortless precision as the dragon dipped and soared. He was close enough to feel the warmth of you through layers of fabric. Close enough to observe the subtle adjustments in your posture each time the Light Fury shifted its wings.

You leaned forward slightly when it climbed. Relaxed when it glided. Your fingers brushed its neck in absent reassurance.

Curious. You hunted dragons. And yet you seemed to love them.

Viggo’s sharp gaze traced the horizon before settling, almost lazily, on you instead.

He had once believed loyalty could be measured and purchased. Heather had proven otherwise. Betrayal was a language he spoke fluently now.

And still.

There was a dangerous thought forming at the edges of his mind. Perhaps you were not a future traitor. Perhaps you were something rarer.

The dragon banked sharply, sunlight flashing across its scales like a blade’s edge.

Viggo leaned slightly closer, voice smooth as the sea below. “Tell me,” he murmured near your ear, thoughtful rather than accusatory, “when you look at the dragons we hunt… do you see profit… or do you see something you intend to save?”

The wind swallowed the space between you as the Light Fury surged forward, carrying both hunter and rider toward whatever calculation came next.